


The Innuendo Affair

by Graculus



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-10
Updated: 2011-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-16 20:38:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graculus/pseuds/Graculus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The UNCLE rumour mill has a lot to answer for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Innuendo Affair

It happened by accident rather than design, an overheard conversation that sent chills down Napoleon's spine. A casual comment between two members of the U.N.C.L.E. secretarial pool, apparently unaware of the serious implications for the agent who was the subject of their discussion.

He'd just reached the door, hand still raised to push it open, when Napoleon heard his partner's name being mentioned. Curiosity had always been a part of his personality - he supposed it was one of the things that had got him where he was in the U.N.C.L.E. hierarchy - so he paused and listened to what they had to say about Illya, rather than pushing the door open and continuing on in.

In hindsight, he wondered whether this was the right decision.

"I've never heard anyone talk about him. Not like they talk about Solo, anyway," one of the secretaries was saying. Napoleon knew that the 'him' in question was Illya and he recognised the voice too, one of the longer-serving members of that section, with a well-justified reputation for being a gossip. "It's like he gets put in a cupboard at the end of the day... It's just not natural."

"Well, that's Kuryakin for you," the other voice commented. He didn't recognise that one, she had to be new. And if she didn't keep her opinions to herself, particularly where his partner was concerned, Napoleon was minded to ensure that her stay in New York would be a brief one. "Maybe he's just not interested in girls."

The casual throw-away comment made Napoleon's stomach roll - it was clear that the speaker didn't realise the implications of what they were saying.

U.N.C.L.E. itself was a relatively liberal establishment, though every HQ was known to be a hotbed of gossip at the best of times. There was, of course, the danger of such rumors about Illya exposing him to casual prejudice from other agents, but the need to rely on one another's skills and talents had a tendency to counteract such things when the bullets started flying.

Besides, the psychological evaluations they were regularly exposed to should filter out the worst offenders before they reached any kind of position that would allow them to jeopardize U.N.C.L.E. that way.

But that wasn't the end of it - Illya was still technically a citizen of the Soviet Union, even while on loan to U.N.C.L.E.. Though it would take Thrush interrogation techniques to get his partner to criticize his country, Napoleon knew just how the Soviet Union would treat Illya if they even _thought_ the rumors about his sexuality were true.

That was a risk he just wasn't prepared to take. The most innocent comment could be the start of a chain of events that would culminate with his partner being summoned back to the mother country in disgrace, bound for a psychiatric hospital or the gulag. There was no way Napoleon could allow that to happen.

Illya was his friend, someone he owed his own life to a dozen times over, his partner by choice as well as design. No amount of rumor-mongering could be allowed to wreck the synchronicity Napoleon had found in the most unexpected of places.

=======================

He'd no idea what to do next. Napoleon had been able to carry on as if nothing had happened, smiling at the two gossiping secretaries as if they hadn't just tried to sentence his partner to a fate that might well be worse than death. It hadn't been easy, but he had a lifetime of subterfuge to fall back on and it had served him well this time.

For any other U.N.C.L.E. agent, being gay might not necessarily be a problem. In fact, disclosure of such things was encouraged by those higher up in the organisation, since it minimized the opportunity for blackmail. It was a practical concept, rooted in years of experience, and it seemed to work well. But for Illya, should he prove to be homosexual by inclination, the willingness to speculate created by that kind of tolerance could prove deadly.

Napoleon realized he didn't like the idea of anyone else thinking of Illya in a sexual way - it made him feel oddly unsettled. He'd discovered a while back that he somehow thought of Illya as his own possession, a character he alone had created who was understood by no one else.

Others saw only the fade; the face Illya allowed them to see, not the man inside. That privilege was, and should be, his alone -Napoleon had earned that glimpse into the unknown, he reasoned. To everyone else, Illya was the emotionless child of the frozen north and Napoleon was constantly amazed at how little they truly saw. How easily Illya fooled them all into believing what he wanted them to.

But to fool them all, and Illya most of all, Napoleon knew he would need to plan, need to execute his strategy with all the care he used when he planned a mission. Too much and all would suspect; not enough and no one would believe.

Rumors spread easily, but Napoleon doubted rumor alone would suffice. It would do for now, but in the longer term there would need to be evidence, incontrovertible proof.

Napoleon had few doubts that Illya was gay. He couldn't believe the act - they'd been in too many situations where he'd glimpsed the soul that lived behind those expressive eyes to think Illya cold and emotionless. Near death experiences had a way of sharpening your powers of observation, he'd found.

Napoleon had no evidence to prove or disprove such a claim. In itself, he wasn't sure it mattered very much - he'd been attracted to his partner since early on in their working together, before he'd even begun to speculate about Illya's preferences.

If Illya _was_ gay, he wasn't attracted to Napoleon - he'd watched his partner carefully and saw no sign of any such attraction, much to his chagrin.

He was disappointed, but resigned to the fact. It didn't stop Napoleon from looking, or fantasizing about his oblivious partner, it merely stopped him from acting on the thoughts those actions engendered. Thoughts that would have surprised Napoleon before he met a certain Russian agent, coming as they seemed to do completely out of the blue.

Discovering his sudden attraction to his partner had been a source of surprise to Napoleon. He'd always considered himself straight, that had been the answer he'd come up with when the U.N.C.L.E. staff psychologist had asked, and he'd been sure he was telling the truth.

Of course, that had been before Illya arrived on the scene, before everything had been turned upside down by his arrival.

Napoleon knew he'd never worked too well with others - that had always been his downfall before - this time, however, Napoleon decided that Waverly knew what he was doing when he put the two of them together. It was a command decision he could do nothing but applaud.

Was it that he was only attracted to Illya? Napoleon knew he didn't understand much about being gay, but he wasn't sure that was how it worked. He was pretty sure he hadn't been fooling himself.

It seemed more likely he'd been too interested in the availability of women to consider playing on the other side of the fence as well - it had been a subconscious thing, Napoleon reasoned, not a deliberate attempt to hide his true feelings from the organisation to which he owed his loyalty. That wasn't the way he worked.

Napoleon clearly wanted something from Illya that he didn't want from anyone else, a closeness that their partnership tantalized him with and that a sexual relationship would complete. Not that he had any intention of letting Illya know he wanted any such thing. His partner was already astute enough about Napoleon's moods, knew him better than anyone else on the planet and teased him enough as a result of it all.

He wouldn't be cruel, Napoleon was certain about that, but he certainly wouldn't be kind.

Still, Napoleon had no choice but to make his intentions known, it seemed - if not to Illya, then to other people and in such a way that there could be no mistake about Illya's proclivities. That he had made some kind of advance towards Illya and been unsuccessful, thus providing evidence that Illya was heterosexual and therefore beyond suspicion.

The only way forward he could see at the moment was to plant some rumors of his own, but with a difference from the ones already circulating - those were based merely on speculation, while the new rumors would need to be based on some kind of concrete evidence. That would be the only way they would outstrip the competition.

=======================

He chose his next step carefully, not wanting to put himself in jeopardy but also needing to ensure that word was spread. Napoleon knew of a number of agents who shared Illya's taste in bedfellows, but most, as befitted agents of a relatively shadowy international organization, were reticent and might be difficult to engage.

That was where Agent René Lavellier came into the picture. Lavellier was a relative newcomer to U.N.C.L.E. New York, having only recently returned from a stint in the Paris HQ.

Comparisons had been drawn between the two of them before, when Lavellier has cut a swathe through any of the agents and support staff who were so inclined before his kiss and tell behavior had caught up with him. For, skilled lover as he was, Lavellier was also an incorrigible gossip.

As head of Section Two, it was child's play for Napoleon to track Lavellier down, and arrange some kind of rendezvous.

"René, a word if you please?"

"Sir?"

Lavellier looked worried, as well he might. Enforcement agents were rarely summoned to Napoleon's office - it was more usual practice for orders to be given either directly by Mr. Waverly or in written form, depending on the importance of the mission concerned.

Napoleon watched Lavellier for a long moment. The man was handsome, in a conventional sense, his dark hair reminding Napoleon a little of Illya's in terms of its unruliness. Bright brown eyes showed clearly that this was an intelligent agent, one who would likely go far in the organization, if he didn't get himself killed first.

The suit was nice too, though it looked as though Lavellier was having to stretch his salary to afford it - his shoes, while clearly hand-made, had been repaired a number of times. Napoleon felt his sympathy for the Canadian agent rise, knowing first-hand what punishment their line of work meted out to a decent wardrobe.

"René, call me Napoleon, please." He made his voice purr, smiling to himself as he saw Lavellier relax at the tone. "Have a seat."

Napoleon gestured to the empty chairs, watching the agent carefully as he sat. He found himself examining his emotions, as if he were laying them out for inspection. Lavellier was handsome, intelligent, well-dressed, but it clearly wasn't enough. So much for _that_ theory.

"I haven't asked you here on official business, René," Napoleon continued, moving round to lean on the edge of the desk directly in front of where Lavellier sat. The puzzled expression on the Canadian's face was amusing, but Napoleon couldn't let himself be distracted. "I wanted a little advice."

"Advice?" Lavellier had a clear tenor voice, with just a trace of accent. "From me? I'm not sure what I could advise _you_ about, sir," he continued, with a dimpled smile.

"Let's just say your reputation precedes you, shall we?" Lavellier's eyes widened as Napoleon's words sank in. "I was wondering where someone of particular tastes might go, were they to visit Paris."

The other agent was silent for a moment, as if considering something.

"Your partner lived in Paris for some time," Lavellier said.

"My partner has different tastes from my own. Or should I say he shares _some_ and not the rest?"

"He does?" René asked. Napoleon nodded, letting Lavellier's mind do the rest. "I had no idea."

Time to finish this.

"Neither had I, René," Napoleon said. "Fortunately my partner is not one to hold grudges over such misunderstandings."

There, surely that was clear enough? What did he have to do, hire a plane to sky-write the statement that Illya was a heterosexual in the skies over U.N.C.L.E. HQ?

"I can recommend a few places," Lavellier said. "Perhaps over dinner?"

Napoleon forced a smile, one that was at least as genuine as many of those he'd used to charm unsuspecting women.

"I'm a little busy at the moment, René," he said. "But perhaps we could get together sometime next week?" The Canadian agent nodded, his smile growing. "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

He crossed back to his own seat, that movement enough of a dismissal, he hoped. That, Napoleon decided as he watched Lavellier walk out of his office without a backward glance, should be enough.

=======================

"So, what did you do?"

Illya's voice was quiet but, as usual, Napoleon found himself turning toward his partner's words.

"Do?"

"To annoy the secretaries so much," Illya continued, rifling through the file spread out in front of him. He didn't look up as he spoke. "This file is a mess."

"Who says it's my fault? Perhaps they think you've been playing too hard to get, my friend," Napoleon said, wondering if this was the start of the expected backlash. He'd been wondering when it would start, every glance a potential beginning to what he knew would come.

He heard Illya snort, resigned himself to watching his partner unobserved for a long moment. If this was all he was allowed, he told himself, it would have to be enough. Illya might be gay, Napoleon was _almost_ certain that rumor was true, but he had shown no sign of being interested in his very-available partner.

Illya looked up and their eyes met. There was silence between them for a moment, before Illya looked down again at the file.

"I certainly did not learn such behavior from you, if that is the case," Illya said. "You barely know the meaning of the phrase."

"'Hard to get,'" Napoleon said, trying to speak clearly in spite of the way his heart had leapt into his throat at Illya's direct appraisal of him. "Is that if it takes two drinks to get a 'yes' out of someone, rather than one?"

He didn't mean it, never had. Very few women whose company he truly wanted ever made him work too hard for what he was after - that was a part of it all, the complex cut and thrust of repartee was enough to get Napoleon what he wanted when he wanted as often as he desired.

"If I thought you believed half the things you say, Napoleon," Illya began, dismay creeping into his voice. Just then the telephone rang, interrupting his partner's words. Illya answered it, the way he straightened in his chair a subconscious clue for Napoleon that they were about to be summoned to Mr. Waverly's office.

"The old man?" Napoleon asked, when Illya had hung up. Illya nodded. "And of course he wants us there ten minutes ago."

Illya smiled, shrugging slightly.

"Of course."

=======================

He'd made a joke of it, but the question had been serious. The temperature seemed to have dropped in U.N.C.L.E. HQ by quite a few degrees. At least where Napoleon and his usual bevy of female admirers was concerned - that seemed luke-warm at best.

It had been an annoyance to Illya at first, then a source of reluctant amusement, before turning into something that he was able to ignore if he chose. Napoleon drew women like a flame drew moths, except the flame didn't usually work at it. Napoleon did work for what he wanted - he seemed to enjoy the slightest challenge faced when any woman showed reluctance, but also accepted the occasional rebuff with good humor.

So, to see the secretaries practically ignore his partner in the corridor as they passed was a subject of interest, if not concern. And Napoleon didn't seem to be taking much notice of the occurrence, which was odd in itself.

When they'd first been partnered, Illya had wondered how much of Napoleon's womanizing reputation was talk, but it had only taken a little while for him to figure out that it was mostly fact. Napoleon liked women, they liked him - he treated them well, with courtesy and humor, and they responded with affection. It was a win-win situation and something that rarely interfered with their missions in any significant way.

Illya might complain about it at times, but it was like Napoleon complaining about his driving - something to fill in the tedium of stake-outs rather than a bona fide complaint. Certainly it had never threatened their working relationship and that was the most important thing.

Any pipedreams Illya might have had about his partner had been driven away early on, the realities of Napoleon's interest in the opposite sex the equivalent of a cold shower. Illya had restricted himself to a little idle ogling when Napoleon wasn't aware of it, but that was about it - anything else could jeopardize how things stood between them and that was not a sacrifice he was prepared to make.

At times he had wondered if Napoleon ever wondered about him. If Napoleon thought of him at all, pondered just who was his 'type' since he didn't have anything like the reputation of the C.E.A. Maybe Napoleon believed that persona he had created, the whole Ice Prince routine that seemed to have so entranced the staff at HQ.

He'd heard them talk about him, of course, how could he have missed it? But as long as it was just talk, did it really matter what they thought of him?

Illya followed his partner into Waverly's office and took the seat he was gestured towards. Nothing else mattered, only what he and Napoleon did for U.N.C.L.E. - everything else came a distant second.

That was the way he had been trained, to sublimate every emotion, every desire, to the goal for which he strove - it had served him well in the service of his home country; it would continue to serve him now as he worked to protect his adoptive one, and the rest of the world with it.

=======================

Waverly frowned at Napoleon, a real look of concern. That was a sign that the old man had heard the rumors, but was still considering how to act. The years he'd spent being hauled in front of this man, seeing him what felt like day in and day out, meant Napoleon was a conoisseur of Alexander Waverly's expressions.

Today would not be the day his fate was sealed. Waverly was not so cruel that he would have summoned Illya as well if the objective was to give Napoleon a dressing down or worse. He preferred to berate his agents in private if their misdeeds were great enough to truly warrant such a reaction.

And this time Napoleon knew he had placed himself in the firing line for a dressing down from Waverly that would rank amongst the most memorable he had ever received. By engineering the circulation of rumors about himself, Napoleon had thrown everything into turmoil.

If his U.N.C.L.E. dossier said he was meant to behave in a certain way, then any deviation from that was a sign of uncertainty that couldn't be allowed this far up the hierarchy. His dossier said he was heterosexual, and if that wasn't the case, what else might be incorrect?

Until the mess was sorted out, one way or another, Napoleon knew his trustworthiness in Waverly's eyes was seriously in doubt.

"Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. I hope you gentlemen are packed?"

"Packed, sir?" Illya asked. Napoleon glanced across at where his partner sat, seeing the eagerness in every line of his body, in his eyes.

 _Like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start,_ Napoleon thought, smiling to himself. _Henry V_ had been one of his father's favorite plays, one he had read to the family so many times that Napoleon could recite large chunks of dialogue. He'd never seen a better example.

"If I could have your attention, Mr. Solo?" The words, though quietly spoken, were a whip-crack of reproof and it took all Napoleon's concentration to prevent his head snapping round in Waverly's direction.

"Sir?"

Waverly nodded and Napoleon relaxed a little, still aware of his boss's scrutiny - he had clearly sounded contrite enough.

"This, gentlemen," Waverly said, pointing at a picture of a nondescript man which had appeared on the screen, "is Dr. Mateusz Wlodyga, the Polish biochemist."

Napoleon looked at the picture. He'd heard of the man - Illya had made sure of that. He'd talked of nothing else on a stake-out they'd done a few months back, once Napoleon had managed to persuade him to talk. They had argued over something trivial and Illya had been unusually silent afterwards. Fifteen minutes of the salient points of Dr. Wlodyga's research on enzymes had been enough to make Napoleon regret his interest in getting Illya to talk to him. He suspected that had been Illya's intention all along.

Nothing of what Illya had said that night, his words painting a picture of a methodical and thorough researcher with a streak of impulsive genius running through him, had prepared Napoleon for a balding middle-aged man who would never stand out in a crowd. Except for his eyes, which were bright and alive, looking almost out of place in his otherwise ordinary looking face.

He caught Illya's glance and grimaced slightly, smiling to himself at the stifled snort Illya made. It seemed as though his partner remembered that stake-out as well.

"I understand his work on enzymes is quite ground-breaking," Napoleon said, as casually as he could manage.

"Indeed, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, pausing to pick up his pipe and worry it in his fingers for a moment before continuing. "And of great interest to Thrush as well, no doubt."

"And our mission, sir?"

"You speak Polish, Mr. Kuryakin?" Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon saw Illya blink at the apparent non sequitur.

"Fluently, sir."

"Then you will appreciate that you and Mr. Solo are the first choice for this mission. To protect Dr. Wlodyga, who will shortly be giving the keynote speech at a conference in Oxford. My secretary has your tickets."

"For London, sir?" Napoleon asked, wishing for the bright lights of London, a city he loved greatly.

"For Warsaw, Mr. Solo." Waverly smiled, clearly enjoying the disappointment Napoleon knew he was unable to hide. "From where you'll fly to Cracow and then drive south to the Bieszczady mountains. You'll rendezvous with Dr. Wlodyga, escort him to Oxford for the conference and then return him safely home."

To someone who knew Illya as well as he did, it was easy for Napoleon to see the enthusiasm for the mission drain from him. He understood why - despite the fame of the man they'd be protecting, this was a baby-sitting job, pure and simple. Hardly the kind of mission they were used to and a clear indication of Waverly's uncertainty about the current situation.

"Do we have reason to believe Dr. Wlodyga's life is in danger, sir?" Illya asked.

Napoleon sighed to himself, knowing what the answer would be. Rightly or wrongly, his choices had brought them to this. Whatever his motivations, his actions had made Waverly question his role as Chief Enforcement Agent, and now both he and his partner were being 'punished' while Waverly considered what to do with him.

He could, of course, request a transfer, but what would Illya's response to that be? But if the alternative was to drag his partner down with him, wouldn't that defeat the object of this little exercise?

Not that Illya would abandon him, no matter what - the Russian was frustratingly loyal at the best of times - but the last thing Napoleon needed was to undermine any noble motivations that had led him in the first place. He had done what he'd done in order to protect Illya from the consequences of his own actions and had never considered that there might be other repercussions.

Damn it all. He'd dug himself a hole and pulled his partner right in after him, which was the last thing he'd ever intended.

=======================

Illya frowned as he headed down the corridor towards the exit, barely aware of his partner at his side. This was puzzling, very puzzling. Certainly he was aware of Dr. Wlodyga's work, and he spoke Polish fluently enough, but even so this mission was hardly their usual kind. If anything, it felt like some kind of punishment, but punishment for what transgression?

Their last mission together had gone smoothly, all the objectives had been achieved with the minimum of bloodshed. Even the paperwork had arrived on Waverly's desk within the proscribed period.

Illya's last solo mission had also been plain sailing, a relatively straightforward courier job he'd taken up when the agent assigned to it had suddenly been taken ill.

There was nothing there, nothing for which they might have incurred Waverly's wrath - the debriefing session for their mission together had ended with their boss congratulating them for a job well done, which was rare enough in itself that it stood out in Illya's memory.

But, regardless of that, here they were, barely a week later, being sent off to eastern Europe on the kind of mission he'd heard described as 'baby-sitting' by American agents. It was very odd.

As was the fact that Napoleon hadn't protested either, hadn't spoken a word to Waverly about the mission.

Protests rarely accomplished anything when Waverly had made his mind up about something, but that fact had never stopped Napoleon from trying before. It was as if he had expected the mission. As if Napoleon knew he had done something that warranted them being given it.

Illya almost stopped in his tracks as the thought struck. The secretaries' attitudes to Napoleon, now this mission - they were like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, but still the picture eluded him. Napoleon had clearly done, or said, something while the two of them had gone their separate ways, but what?

What could he have possibly done that would have made both the secretarial pool and Mr. Waverly react this way? Illya couldn't think of anything that fit the bill and discovered that he had no idea how to ask.

=======================

Illya knew something was going on, that much was obvious. So now Napoleon had to play dumb, and try to get through this mission before he discovered what it was that Waverly intended. If it was a transfer, Napoleon decided, he would ask for a new partner - he wouldn't drag Illya down with him.

He was sure he could engineer some kind of disagreement between the two of them that would make Illya glad to be rid of him, even though it would feel like he was losing a part of himself. Napoleon knew he would never have another partner like Illya - particularly if Waverly had him shipped off to Alaska, or wherever else was flavor of the month for agents who'd fallen foul of the system.

Illya would be safe, that was the most important thing. Safe to continue to work for U.N.C.L.E., safe from being dragged back to Russia. Whatever it took to prevent that from happening, whatever it cost Napoleon himself, he was fully prepared to do it.

Even if he had to make Illya hate him in the process.

=======================

The more he watched Napoleon, the more convinced Illya became that he was right. His partner was many things, but a convincing liar wasn't one of them. Perhaps that was one of the things at the root of his success with women: the fact that they sensed some kind of sincerity about him, that he didn't pretend a deeper interest in them than he really had.

He had no idea. Illya told himself that he'd never had any idea about women, a situation that he thought unlikely to change any time in the future. They were a closed book to him, almost as if they were another species rather than another sex. He had women friends, April Dancer being one of them, but still her thought processes were alien to him, both by dint of her gender and her nationality.

Maybe it was a little like his experiences of learning English? It was only when he had arrived in Cambridge that Illya had realized how little he really knew - he had been taught English, could speak it correctly and fluently, but the nuances of the language as spoken by natives eluded him. He was formal, his grammar too correct, his speech patterns marking him out as an alien as surely as if his skin had been a different color.

Was it like that with women? He should be able to understand someone like April - they had shared so many similar experiences - yet still there were things about her that Illya didn't understand, things that seemed so normal to her and so bizarre to him.

Napoleon seemed to have little difficulty understanding women, or at least getting what he wanted from them. Was that what this was all about, Illya wondered, some liaison gone wrong? Had Napoleon committed some kind of faux pas amongst his many relationships and now the two of them were being banished to baby-sit a bio-chemist as a result?

He ought to be angry, should be snapping at Napoleon if this was the case, but how could he bring himself to ask? Napoleon was clearly already embarrassed about the mission itself, had barely spoken two words to him since they'd left Waverly's office, his continued silence a tacit agreement to the idea that this situation was somehow his fault.

They were on their way to the airport now, their always-packed cases in the trunk of the taxi they shared, the distorted sounds of some popular song echoing in the driver's compartment through what sounded like a broken speaker. Too much treble and not enough bass, Illya decided, concentrating on the tinny sound for a moment in an attempt to order his thoughts.

=======================

The flight itself seemed endless. Napoleon tried to concentrate on the book he'd brought along, on chatting inconsequentially with the stewardess, but all the time he was aware of Illya's eyes. His partner was watching him; it was clear his analytical mind was hard at work trying to figure out just how the two of them had come to be on the red-eye to Europe, headed for the other side of the Iron Curtain.

To be honest, Napoleon wasn't completely sure himself.

He'd expected a reprimand from Waverly, some kind of punishment for himself, but not this. Though it gave him ample opportunity to forge some kind of separation from his partner, preferably after they had returned Dr. Wlodyga home safely. There was no way Napoleon would jeopardize any mission, no matter how inconsequential it seemed -besides, even if he himself was about to get shipped off to clean toilets in Alaska, Illya's reputation as a top-flight agent needed to be preserved.

So, he had a little time to figure it out, opportunity to prepare himself for the permanent loss of his partner. Better to make it a surgical strike, make the cut between them as clean as he could manage it.

=======================

One thing about their line of work: the hours spent on airplanes gave an agent a lot of time to think. By the time you left for your mission, most of the time whatever information was available you knew already and the unknown wasn't worth spending time thinking about. What did that leave other than hours for contemplation of your partner's odd behavior?

Napoleon was flirting with the stewardess, but it seemed automatic, something to pass the time even as Illya himself was pretending to read. He wasn't convinced that Napoleon was giving his pursuit of the smiling dark-haired woman even as much attention as he was giving his own magazine article.

Something was definitely going on, that much was certain. They'd spent so much time together over the years that they'd been partners that Illya was starting to think he could, as the old adage went, read Napoleon like a book. For all that his partner thought himself subtle and clever, Illya knew most of the nuances of Napoleon's behavior and had watched him carefully.

He was trying to hide something. He'd had done something to put himself in Waverly's bad books and now Napoleon was studiously ignoring him.

Stranger and stranger.

If he had a suspicious mind, more suspicious than years as a secret agent had given him anyway, Illya would have said that 'something' involved him somehow. But, try as he might, he couldn't quite figure out what that 'something' might be.

=======================

Warsaw-Okêcie airport was all that Napoleon had expected it would be -a stunning example of post-war Soviet-inspired planning slapped on the outskirts of the Polish capital city itself.

He stood out among the crowd, there was no question about it.

As they headed through Customs, no one seemed to give his partner a second glance, though Napoleon couldn't figure out quite how that could be. Somehow Illya managed to look quite at home and Napoleon was content to follow him, lost in a land where he could barely say 'please' and 'thank you.'

It had to be the suit. It wasn't even one of his better ones, just something he was content to wear while travelling, but even so it got Napoleon noticed. And the kind of looks he was getting weren't all positive.

"Illya?"

His partner turned from dealing with immigration, shoving his own passport absently into his inside jacket pocket as he held Napoleon's passport out. Their fingers met briefly, brushing across the material of the dark blue cover.

"Yes?"

"Could we get out of here?" Napoleon was feeling distinctly uncomfortable, like someone had painted a target on his back.

"Our flight to Kraków leaves in just under two hours, Napoleon." Why did he get the feeling his multi-lingual partner was relishing the opportunity to remind him just how out of the loop he was. "Perhaps some tea while we wait?"

Napoleon found himself nodding, following his partner as he weaved his way through the crowds in the terminal building. He could hear the muttering as he passed, sotto voce as it was.

"What are they saying?" he asked, lengthening his stride to catch up with his partner. Illya's instinct for finding sustenance seemed to be working full-tilt as he headed towards a small stall set up in the corner.

"Hmm?" Illya glanced across at him and listened for a moment to the muttered comments, a small smile on his face. "Most of what they're saying is about your suit, but I think you'd already worked that out." Napoleon nodded. "They're wondering whether you're KGB."

"KGB?" Napoleon found himself repeating, incredulous. "Do I look like KGB?"

Illya looked him up and down, turning once more from where he was haggling with the old lady who ran the tea stall.

"No. Not in the least." He turned back to her, pressing some small denomination notes into her hand. "If they're lucky, most of the people here have no idea what members of the KGB look like. And they'd like to keep it that way."

"I'm sure they would."

"It's expensive, your suit, that's all they know," Illya continued, passing him a scalding hot glass of tea. "No one here could afford such a thing unless they had KGB or underworld connections. Clearly they don't take you for a gangster."

Napoleon blew on the tea, watching in horrified fascination as his partner gulped down a mouthful of tea, seemingly heedless of the temperature.

"I suppose I should be thankful," he said. "I was always told I had an honest face."

=======================

The Illyushin-18 they were currently travelling in was a noisy plane, the vibration and sound from its four engines rattling its way through the entire fuselage until Illya was almost certain the airplane was going to shake itself to pieces. He glanced across at his partner, who occupied the window seat.

Napoleon looked no more relaxed than he himself felt. Fortunately it was a relatively short flight south to Kraków, where a car should be waiting for them. If he read his partner correctly, Napoleon would be glad to escape the confines of the plane and hit the open road even further south.

Currently he seemed to be mesmerized by the movement of the propellors and Illya studied him a moment longer, glad of the chance. He still had no idea what Napoleon was hiding from him, though he was more and more certain as the hours passed that it was something important. But how to discover what it was?

Napoleon wasn't the easiest person to get information from. Too often a glib response and a winning smile was all that Illya could obtain.

"How long from Kraków to where Dr. Wlodyga lives?" Napoleon had asked, as they'd headed towards their plane. No matter what angle he approached the subject from, Illya had only been able to get his partner to talk about their current assignment.

Part of him wanted to create some reason to have to stay the night in Kraków, to persuade Napoleon to go along with that idea and give them the opportunity to deal with whatever it was that stood between them, rather than get straight off the plane and head south again. But he was sure Napoleon wouldn't agree - he seemed in the mood to get everything over and done with, get the bio-chemist where he needed to be, focussing on nothing else.

So, if nothing else would work, Illya would fall into line, be the perfect partner. But he'd wait for the opportunity to find out just what was going on. Maybe once they were back in Poland, their bio-chemist safely returned home, maybe then he could discover what Napoleon had done?

=======================

Napoleon found himself eyeing the car with more than a little disdain. Since they'd arrived at Balice airport, on the outskirts of Kraków, he and Illya had been forced to wait for their further means of transportation. When it had finally arrived, he wasn't completely sure the wait had been worthwhile.

Clearly, however, the bull-nosed white car that had turned up when they were starting to lose hope, was its owner's pride and joy. Whatever it was. Napoleon had never quite seen another car like it.

"That's it?" he muttered to Illya, who just smiled and nodded.

Illya walked away, making small talk with the beaming owner, patting the front of the unattractive vehicle fondly as he did so. Suddenly Napoleon was very glad he had the opportunity to get Illya to drive. The car, if that was what it was, looked like it weighed a ton.

"It's an FSO," Illya muttered, as he returned to where Napoleon was standing with their suitcases. "Be polite."

As if he was ever anything else? And what the hell was an 'FSO' anyway? Shorthand for 'tank'? He'd seen more graceful armored cars in Korea.

He forced out a smile, trying to remember just how he'd managed to get himself and his partner here. "Nice car," he said.

=======================

They'd made good time, picked up Dr. Wlodyga and were on their way back to Kraków. Illya was still driving, wrestling the heavy car through the twists and turns of the roads around Nowy Sacz, their biochemist in the back seat nodding as if he was about to fall asleep.

Napoleon sat next to him in the front of the car, but for all his reaction he might as well have been back in New York.

"Napoleon."

It took a moment for his partner to even look round. This was clearly more serious than he'd realized.

"What?"

"When this is over," Illya said, flicking a glance back over his shoulder to where Dr. Wlodyga drowsed. "We _will_ talk."

Napoleon said nothing, merely turned to stare out of the car window once more. That was all the response Illya was able to provoke, all the way back to the airport. There was no sign of Thrush, no threat to their charge, only one very worried U.N.C.L.E. agent concerned about his partner.

=======================

It seemed, Napoleon decided, as he stood by the door of the lecture hall, that he'd have to make his move sooner than he'd anticipated. Dr. Wlodyga's lecture was in full swing, the board behind him covered in arcane chalk marks, and his audience seemed enthralled.

Illya was suspicious, his pronouncement as they'd headed for Balice airport once more enough to make Napoleon concerned. If he didn't know what was going on, he suspected something was - if Napoleon knew his partner, there was nothing that he liked better than to get his teeth into a mystery. He was tenacious in the extreme and currently that tenacity was aimed squarely at Napoleon.

Illya was watching him, waiting for the right moment. It was much like being held captive by Thrush, his every movement under scrutiny, but with no chance of escape. There was nowhere, after all, he could go that his partner wouldn't find him - the alternatives were clear: he had to sever all ties with his partner before he dragged him down too or risk Illya discovering just what he'd done.

=======================

They'd taken off from Heathrow and were heading back across Europe, mission accomplished. In a matter of hours, Dr. Wlodyga would be home and Napoleon could be interrogated without risk.

"Do you ever think about what might have happened if you'd stayed in London?" Napoleon asked.

"Instead of going to New York?" Illya just looked at him for a moment, almost thrown by the apparent non sequitur. "Not particularly. Why?"

"Things would have been very different. For both of us."

"I don't doubt it. I would have been stuck in a lab and you'd probably be dead by now, with all the idiotic risks you take."

What was this in aid of? Napoleon had never been someone who indulged in 'what if' - they'd both been through too much, both alone and together, to make that a worthwhile pursuit.

"I'm serious, Illya."

"So am I," Illya snapped. Suddenly his tolerance for this line of discussion had ebbed away. "Why all this sudden interest in what might have been?"

He glanced across at where Dr. Wlodyga was sitting, smiling a little when the biochemist still seemed engrossed in the journal he was reading. Following the rapturous reception of his lecture, he didn't seem at all concerned that his escorts were snapping at each other.

He looked back at his partner - Napoleon shrugged, the gesture eloquence itself.

"Maybe it's time I started thinking," he said. "Maybe it's past time."

=======================

They were on their way back to Kraków at last, having returned Dr. Wlodyga home. Somehow Illya got the impression that the biochemist was glad to see the back of them, though he'd been gracious enough in his thanks for keeping him safe.

"Open Channel D," he said, pulling out his communicator. Napoleon had insisted on driving, which was in itself a rare enough event, and Illya wanted to take this opportunity to check in with HQ. "Overseas relay."

The voice which responded on the other end was an unfamiliar one, female as most of the communications staff were.

"Channel D open."

"Kuryakin here."

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Please inform Mr. Waverly that Dr. Wlodyga has been safely returned home. Mr. Solo & I are currently on our way to Kraków."

Out of the corner of his eye, Illya could see Napoleon watching him and hoped he was paying as much attention to the road.

"I have a message for Mr. Solo."

"Go ahead."

Illya had to admit to himself that he was curious, but this wasn't the first time official U.N.C.L.E. communications had been hijacked by his partner's social engagements. Perhaps the temperature at HQ had begun to rise once more, proving there was truth in the old adage that absence made the heart grow fonder?

"Monique from Research wanted me to tell Mr. Solo that she's no longer interested in having dinner with him." Illya looked round at Napoleon, who was giving the twists and turns of the upcoming road much more attention than he had done previously. "I have a similar message for him from Janice in Personnel."

"Oh. I'll be sure and pass that on," Illya said, fumbling to close the communicator before any more names could be added to the list. Even if Napoleon wasn't embarrassed, and another sidelong glance left Illya unconvinced of this, Illya was embarrassed on his behalf. "Kuryakin out."

There was silence between them in the car for a moment. Illya turned in the passenger seat, fixing his partner with what he hoped was an implacable stare.

"So, my friend..."

"Hmm?"

"Care to tell me what that was about?"

=======================

Napoleon had managed to stonewall his partner till they reached Balice airport, only to discover their internal flight had been cancelled. He was currently watching his partner attempt to determine when the next flight to Warsaw might be and all the while trying to ignore the sidelong glances aimed in his direction by various people in the terminal. That experience was getting old.

Illya had finished his conversation and was headed back to where he had left his partner, his face clouded.

"Well?"

"Technical problems." Illya snapped the words, making it sound for all the world as if the Polish airlines were personally conspiring against him. "The next flight will be tomorrow morning."

That was all he needed. To be trapped in Kraków with his partner, who was hell-bent on discovering just what Napoleon had been up to. Alternatively, it gave him a golden opportunity to wreck their partnership once and for all, if only he could summon up the will to take it. Napoleon didn't like the idea of leaving Illya angry with him, even if the motives behind his actions were good ones, but if it was Illya angry or Illya incarcerated, he'd take the former every time.

"I suppose we'd better find ourselves a hotel room?" he asked, putting as jaunty a tone into his words as he could manage. He saw Illya's eyes narrow.

"Are you unwell?"

"I can't want to spend the evening in Kraków with my partner without an ulterior motive?"

Illya's suspicious nature, never far from the surface, was in full flow. He was eyeing his partner now as if he was a bomb about to explode, or a wild animal.

"No," Illya replied. "Usually you complain about being stuck in the middle of nowhere. What is wrong?"

That was a subtle jab, but Napoleon saw it for what it was right away. Illya hadn't given up on his former line of enquiry, wanting to know just what had happened back in U.N.C.L.E. New York, he was just going at it from a different direction.

"Nothing's wrong, Illya," he said. This was the moment, Napoleon sensed it; the right time to strike the first blow, like it or not. "For once, Illya, can't you keep your nose out of my business? I've had one mother, I don't need another one."

The flash of hurt in his partner's eyes was only momentary, but he saw it anyway. The words, reminding Illya that he had overstepped the boundaries of partnership, had hit home, striking him just as Napoleon had intended. He pressed his advantage, even though the words he spoke were painful to him as well.

"You never leave well enough alone," Napoleon continued. "No wonder Waverly is thinking about splitting us up." That was a lie, one easy enough for Illya to check if he chose, but Napoleon was gambling that his partner's pride would prevent it. "Maybe he's right."

=======================

It was as though the universe had been turned upside down for a moment, everything that Illya had thought he could rely on ripped away in the space of a heartbeat. It left him gasping for air, floundering as he tried to adjust to this new reality he found himself in.

He was glad that most of the people around them couldn't speak English, though the tone of Napoleon's words had spoken volumes on their own. Like a lover's quarrel - Illya thought how ironic that was, even as he sought some kind of equilibrium.

He'd had no warning of this, no prior suspicions that matters had deteriorated between them to such an extent. Was this why Napoleon had been talking about what life would have been like if he'd never come to New York? That was the last reason Illya could have come up with.

Napoleon had walked away from him, was currently standing by the window that overlooked the runway, giving the impression that the conversation was over. Plainly ignoring the fact he had just ripped his partner's heart out with a few well-chosen words.

Illya had never suspected...

Because there was nothing to suspect. The truth of the situation slammed into Illya with as much impact as his partner's words. This was all part of what was going on - he had come too close to the moment of discovery and Napoleon had used those words, the ones he knew would shake the foundations of their partnership to the core, in order to deflect his attention.

And it had almost worked.

"Come on," Illya said, crossing to where Napoleon stood. "Let's go back into the city."

For a long moment Napoleon didn't reply, didn't even look round. Finally he nodded and Illya turned away, towards the exit, hoping their borrowed car was still there.

=======================

They were halfway back to Kraków before Illya spoke again.

Napoleon had been considering his next move, knowing the battle was far from over - he had to keep Illya unbalanced, keep him angry, in order to ensure that he wouldn't object too much when Waverly really _did_ split them up. And for that to happen, Napoleon couldn't miss any opportunity to work on the split he'd already begun to create between them.

"I know what you're trying to do."

It took an effort not to look round, to concentrate on looking out of the passenger window rather than turning to gawp at his partner. Illya's voice had been calm, his tone measured and under control. Not the angry bristling response Napoleon had hoped for, the one that would make what he had to do that much easier.

"Something is going on," Illya continued. "And you _will_ tell me, sooner or later."

By the time they reached the city itself, neither of them had spoken for a while. Illya stopped by a crossroads, getting out of the car to speak with a young couple who were passing, and Napoleon watched the three of them deep in conversation. Illya was all smiles, that ready charm he could conjure up if he chose to do so proving a positive boon in this situation.

He didn't look away as Illya got back into the car. What was the point? His partner had figured out something was wrong, he'd get to the heart of the matter one way or another.

"We're in luck, Napoleon," Illya said. "That young woman's father runs a hotel on Ulitsa Pijarska."

They were there within minutes, pulling up outside a large five-story white building. The proprietor was all smiles, the thought of U.S. dollars doubtless on his mind as he led the way upstairs. When they reached their room long-standing routines kicked in, the two agents examining the hotel room minutely for any kind of hidden recording device and finding nothing suspicious.

"Now, Napoleon," Illya said, turning to his partner, his eyes intent. "Now you will tell me _exactly_ what is going on."

=======================

He was under no misapprehension that this would be easy - whatever it was, Napoleon had already tried to facilitate some kind of break between the two of them, rather than face it. That in itself was not like his partner and that left Illya at a loss. He couldn't imagine what it could be, what secret his partner might not feel able to trust him with, but he was determined to find out.

Napoleon's face had his most mulish expression firmly in place, but that was no match for the depths of stubbornness that Illya had to hand.

"You have been acting strangely," he said. "First Waverly makes us come here, because of something _you_ have done." He paused, waiting for Napoleon to deny that accusation, a denial that did not come. Satisfied that he was on the right lines, Illya carried on. "And then you try to pick a fight with me." He eyed Napoleon once more. "You are dissatisfied with my work."

"No." The word sounded forced but the sentiment behind it appeared genuine.

"What then?"

"It's nothing you've done." Napoleon didn't look away, giving his partner that much at least.

"You tell me that Waverly is planning to break up our partnership and it's _nothing I've done_?" The last words were snapped out, Illya heard the steel in his voice as they were spoken.

"I created this situation," Napoleon said. "You had nothing to do with it. Waverly will know that, when we get back."

What Napoleon didn't say was as clear as what he did and Illya had no hesitation in filling in the unspoken words.

"When you ask Waverly for a new partner." Napoleon nodded, reluctantly. "You've done something." Illya could read his partner's mind, that was the only explanation for it. "And it has something to do with me. But it's nothing I've done." Illya was thinking out loud now, barely conscious of Napoleon's presence in the room there with him. "You're trying to protect me from something."

It was obvious, so obvious he barely needed Napoleon's agreement, though it punctuated Illya's conclusions perfectly.

"And now, my friend," Illya said. "Tell me just what it is you're protecting me _from_."

=======================

"Of all the arrogant, underhanded..."

Napoleon watched as his partner fumed, pacing the small hotel room. Outside, the street was buzzing with people, all oblivious to the drama being enacted two storys above.

He'd told Illya part of the truth, the part where people were talking about him - whether he was attempting to buy himself time or just avoiding the rest, Napoleon wasn't completely sure. Still, Illya was angry enough already, even though it was hard to believe that he was oblivious to the rumor mill that thrived in U.N.C.L.E. New York.

"You did not think to _tell_ me about any of this." Illya continued, halting in the middle of the room to glare accusingly at Napoleon. "No. Instead you must ride in and rescue me from myself, like I was some foolish child!"

"Illya, it's not like that..." Napoleon began, but then paused. What _was_ it like? How could he explain himself in a way the already-irate Russian would be prepared to understand?

"I am not your.. your.. chattel!" Illya spat, having clearly finally found the word he was searching for. He was still there in the middle of the room, looking as deadly as a trapped wolf and just as ready to rip Napoleon's throat out if he got too close.

"I had to do something." The words seemed to be spoken of their own volition, slipping into the charged atmosphere that hung between them as if they had a life of their own.

"Why?"

"Because you weren't," Napoleon said, all the time wondering if he had just signed the death warrant on their partnership. Sure, he'd been pushing Illya away, creating a division between them in the hope of alienating him, but there had been little success so far. And Illya seemed determined that their partnership would continue.

But even if he _did_ destroy it all, the words needed to be said -Illya couldn't continue to risk himself like this. Not while Napoleon had breath in his body to do or say something about it.

"Because you didn't think about what you were doing.. the risks you took.."

Illya laughed, a short bark of amusement.

"You are my partner, Napoleon, not my keeper. I thought I left that kind of scrutiny behind when I left the Soviet Union."

"I'm not joking, Illya." Napoleon's head was in his hands now - he knew how it looked, but he sensed defeat. This time at the hands of an enemy who didn't care what he did to himself or the risks he took.

"Neither am I," Illya said. He crouched down, so their eyes were at a level. "I know the risks, my friend. I've done nothing for which the KGB could point a finger at me."

There was silence between them as Illya's words sank in. Napoleon grabbed at them like a life-line.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. I am not ashamed of what I am, Napoleon, but I do not allow either my emotions or my desires to rule me. I thought you knew me better than that."

"Then you're safe," Napoleon continued. "But I thought.. I mean, the rumors about you.."

"Are just that, nothing more." Illya laughed again and this time it sounded much less bitter. "You should hear what they say about you, my friend."

=======================

Was it his imagination or did what looked like guilt cross his partner's face? No, that was definitely what it was. He had a sudden feeling that there was more to this story that had first appeared. What Napoleon had already told him, that he was the subject of gossip at HQ and that his partner had attempted to stem the flow of talk about him, that was clearly true. But he had a sense that there was something missing, some element to the overall picture that he had yet to grasp. Something that Napoleon had deliberately avoided mentioning.

"Tell me," Illya said, conscious of the menace that had slipped into his tone as he spoke. He saw Napoleon straighten up at the words, reacting to the emotion held there. "Exactly what you did. And why."

He recognized the tone of his own voice immediately and it was clear his partner did too. That was Illya's interrogation voice, the one that promised no mercy without answers.

"It was for the best," Napoleon began, his tone placatory.

"Why am I not convinced?" Illya asked. "That kind of rationalization from you usually accompanies some kind of disaster."

Napoleon had crossed to the window and was looking down at the marketplace, his back rigid with tension.

"Tell me, Napoleon," Illya said again, his tone softer this time. It was clearly a difficult subject, whatever it was. "Please."

"Agent Lavellier."

"René?" Illya knew he looked puzzled, but he couldn't help it. "What about him?"

"I.." From where he was standing, Illya could see Napoleon's hands gripping the edge of the window, the knuckles white. "..came onto him."

There had been few occasions in his life when Illya had been at a loss for words. This was one of them. Of all the things he had been expecting Napoleon to say, that statement hadn't been one of them -not in the depths of his strangest drug-related Thrush interrogation hallucinations had he ever expected to hear his partner say he'd made sexual advances to another man.

"I'm still not seeing how this led us to where we are now," Illya said, cautiously. Napoleon had still not relaxed, his spine still rigid even through the tailoring of his suit.

"I told him I'd made advances to you. Unsuccessfully."

So, that was it. Illya was sure he still wasn't seeing the entire picture, but Napoleon seemed to have relaxed a little, the normal color flooding back into the skin on his hands as his grip on the wood eased.

"I don't understand." Napoleon still didn't turn around and Illya wasn't sure why. "What does that have to do with us being on this mission?"

Different scenarios ran through his brain, each one involving his partner and Lavellier, an agent who was as well known for his exploits among the homosexual agents employed by U.N.C.L.E. as Napoleon was among the heterosexual women. None of them made sense, or at least not the kind of sense that would lead to them being here.

"René has something of a reputation, doesn't he?" Napoleon asked. Illya nodded, even though he knew there was no way Napoleon could see him, unless it was reflected in the fly-specked glass of the hotel window. It didn't seem to matter anyway, as his partner continued. "As a lover and as a gossip."

"You wanted everyone to know?"

That made no sense at all. For all his exploits, Napoleon was an intensely private person, that air of bonhomie a projection - who should know that better than his own partner?

"Not about me." Napoleon paused for a moment. "About you."

Illya took a couple of steps closer to where his partner stood, an involuntary movement caused by the pain he heard in Napoleon's voice. The words that would make sense of this mess ran from his brain like water. It was as if he had never known them, could never express his thoughts or feelings in English. Napoleon's actions had literally left him speechless.

"Illya?"

He was close enough to touch his partner now, the instinct to grab Napoleon by the shoulder, as if turning him bodily would force him to face what he had done.

"You idiot." There, words once more. Coherent words. "No wonder Waverly was so angry with you."

He caught sight of their reflections over Napoleon's shoulder, even the slight warp of the glass not enough to disguise the worried expression on his partner's face and the controlled fury on his own. Damn him. Damn Napoleon's stupid 'good ideas,' his idiotic noble gestures. He'd figured it all out by now, from Napoleon's uncertain words and deliberate actions - what his partner had done and why. The only thing left was Illya's own response to it all.

"I can't talk about this any more, Napoleon," Illya said, turning from the window and walking back to the bed. His suitcase was still there and he busied himself with the contents for a moment. "I need to think. But this conversation isn't over..."

=======================

They'd managed to make it back to New York, surviving the rest of the time in their hotel room and the long flight back from Warsaw.

Illya had been taciturn, to say the least, even more reticent than usual. Napoleon himself had retreated into his book, interspersed with a little light flirtation with the stewardess when Illya had fallen asleep. Somehow it wouldn't have seemed right to do it otherwise.

As they left the airport, sharing a cab as usual, Napoleon wondered if this was what Death Row felt like. He had a sense of counting down, a sense of everything he knew and believed unwinding around him. But the next step was down to Illya, his partner had made that very clear.

Whenever he had tried to broach anything that might even slightly impinge on the subject of 'what the hell he was thinking,' Illya had just looked at him. That ferocious cold expression he rarely saw aimed his way any more, the one that always made Napoleon glad Illya was on his side.

=======================

By the time they'd reached Illya's apartment, it was clear that Napoleon was seriously on edge.

"You need to see Mr. Waverly," Illya said, as he closed the door behind the two of them. "Explain it to him. It was a momentary aberration." Napoleon nodded.

That was the first priority. To get both of them out of the doghouse where the Old Man was concerned. The last thing they needed was more baby-sitting assignments, but until Waverly was convinced Napoleon was trustworthy again, there was little chance of that.

"As simple as that?"

"Well, you might have to grovel a little to get back into his good books," Illya continued. There was something about Napoleon's dispirited reply that cut him to the quick, driving a spike of pain deep into his heart.

Napoleon nodded.

"I understand why you did this, Napoleon." He had to get through to his partner somehow, before the weight of it all destroyed everything that was between them. "Pretending you were like me."

Napoleon laughed, his laugh as lifeless as his voice had been.

"That's the ironic part, my friend," Napoleon said. "I _am_ like you."

"Don't joke about this," Illya snapped.

"Who's joking?" Napoleon was wearing a hole in the carpet now, pacing back and forth. Illya watched him for a moment, in silence. How could he answer that?

=======================

There. He'd said it, admitted the one thing he wouldn't have said under Thrush torture and still Illya said nothing.

"Well?" he said, when he could stand the silence between them no longer.

"Well what?"

"Don't you have _anything_ to say?"

He'd paused in the middle of the room, though whether it was in defiance or to make it easier to get out of the apartment door, Napoleon couldn't say.

"Lots." Illya had stood, was closing the space between them till they stood face to face now. "Beginning with something about what you did with Agent Lavellier."

"It was a mistake."

Illya's gaze was implacable, unblinking, almost hypnotic.

"It was." His voice was as cold as his gaze, as mesmerizing. "I don't share. With anyone."

Napoleon felt the breath catch in his throat, heard the slight choking sound that issued from his mouth. He also couldn't miss the warmth that kindled in his belly, as Illya's glacial tone wrapped itself around him.

He'd never played those sorts of games, never once thought of possession or being possessed. Where Illya was concerned it was different, though - a thousand shared experiences tied them closer to one another than to anyone else alive.

Would it be so bad, exclusivity? Monogamy was unexplored territory, that much was certain, and the lure of the unknown pulled strongly at Napoleon.

=======================

For the briefest of moments Illya wondered if he'd pushed too far, overstepping the unwritten boundaries that lay between them even now. But then he'd seen the flare of desire in Napoleon's eyes, echoed in the guttural sound that emerged from his partner's mouth and knew he'd guessed true.

His oh-so-domineering partner was turned on by someone else taking charge, or at least the appearance of it. That wasn't something Illya desired; he wanted Napoleon to admit what he wanted because he wanted it, not be pushed into an admission he didn't mean. But there was still time to play these games, push the limits of the desire that stretched between them.

They were face to face still, eyes on each other, as if each was waiting for the other to back down.

This was so new to both of them, in different ways. Illya had always known how his own desires lay, but had chosen to sublimate them into devotion to his country and then to U.N.C.L.E. Anything else had been too dangerous. Napoleon had taken the other path, the path of denial, choosing to focus his attention on women. Only now, it seemed, was Napoleon able to admit that focus merely scratched the surface of who he was.

And it had taken a threat to Illya to force that admission.

If it hadn't been for that, Illya wondered, how long might they have carried on oblivious? He had wanted his womanizing partner for longer than he could remember, but had thought that wanting vain. Desire had crept up on Napoleon, if his words were anything to go by, ambushing him. Still, he had been given the chance to continue to deny his feelings, only for another threat to surface.

Illya found himself feeling almost grateful to the gossips.

=======================

"So," Napoleon began, once he had regained control of his vocal cords. "What happens now?"

Illya's gaze had moved from its contemplation of his partner and Napoleon felt strangely bereft. Those perceptive eyes seemed to have lost a little of their focus, turning inwards as if to contemplate the possibilities.

"You know I want you..." Napoleon continued, wincing a little at the blandness of the words.

How had he ever gained his reputation as a seducer if that was the best he could manage? Except that, he began to realize with some dismay, he wasn't looking to seduce Illya, he was looking for more than the casual encounter his honeyed words were usually employed for.

"I can't share you, Napoleon. And I won't." Illya looked at him once more as he spoke. "That is my only condition. If you are unable to accept that, there are no hard feelings."

"You make it sound like I'm a libertine."

Illya snorted.

"You?" he asked. "Surely you're joking."

"And if I'm interested?"

"Just interested?"

"More than interested. Intrigued."

Illya smiled at this. That smile Napoleon didn't see anything like as much as wanted to, the smile that had the habit of sending an electric shock straight to his groin for the longest time. And now, for the first time, he was in the position to do something about it.

=======================

He'd had to wait for Napoleon to say 'yes,' wanting his explicit consent, not the ambiguity of silence. Illya found himself closing the space between them, pleased that Napoleon didn't back away, didn't waver for a moment, even when they were close enough for him to feel the warmth of his partner's body despite the layers of material that separated them.

He couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away from his partner, wondering if this would all disappear if he did so. His questing hand wrapped itself round Napoleon's wrist, Illya's thumb brushing over Napoleon's pulse. That tiny thread of life, echoed in himself, reminding Illya of their shared mortality.

All the more reason to do this now, not knowing what the future might bring.

Napoleon didn't move, didn't pull away from his touch either, his stillness and silence tacit permission this time. Knowing this might not last, Illya leaned forward, closing the space between them, the fingers of his free hand closing quickly round his partner's doubtlessly expensive silk tie to pull Napoleon's head down so they could kiss.

Napoleon's mouth opened under his, though for a moment Illya wasn't sure who had made the tiny moaning sound as their mouths met. After a moment's reflection he realized he had been the source, those long frustrating months and years, watching his partner from afar, culminating in this moment. This long-desired moment, one that he had never believed possible, one that he'd dreamed of for so long.

Illya could feel Napoleon's hand where it rested on his back, pulling the two of them even closer, if that were possible. A broad capable hand, one that had tended his injuries, now caressing the sweep of his spine through the material of his jacket, setting off sparks of desire in Illya's groin.

When Illya broke off the kiss, reluctantly, it was only to study Napoleon's face, taking into account the flush that had settled there, the desire even more evident in the darkness of his eyes.

"I have a bed," Illya said.

He took half a step forwards, smiling as Napoleon's body moved with him, as though they danced. The movement made their bodies rub together a little more, heated evidence of their desire something that neither of them were able to hide any longer.

"The couch is closer," Napoleon replied, before kissing him again. This time, unlike the last, Napoleon was the aggressor, using his slight height advantage to take control of the kiss, even as Illya maneuvred the two of them back towards the couch in question.

Illya felt the echo through their joined bodies as the backs of Napoleon's knees hit the edge of the cushions. The only other reality in Illya's world now Napoleon's talented mouth, his equally talented fingers and the curve of Napoleon's skull under his own fingers.

Napoleon's hand had insinuated itself under Illya's jacket, then under his waistband until it found skin. Those fingers, so skilled in dealing out death, were currently tracing their way up and down Illya's spine, detailing every vertebra and line of muscle.

Napoleon was mapping every sensitive spot on his back, long fingers skimming every scar he'd ever acquired in the service of U.N.C.L.E.. The care involved in that detailed survey of his past was relentlessly pushing Illya closer to the edge, even as he found himself writhing against Napoleon's leg.

What remained of his rational brain, those few brain cells that hadn't been turned to goo by Napoleon's relentless assault on his senses, catalogued the level of arousal in his partner. There could be no hiding it; inexperienced in this kind of dealings with other men as Napoleon might be, he was all heat against Illya's hip.

Illya pulled back, sliding one hand between the two of them, searching for Napoleon's waistband.

"What..?" Napoleon's voice was husky and the fact that it clearly took a moment for him to even be able to form a coherent word gave Illya a small frisson of pleasure.

"Unless you want your suit ruined, my friend," Illya explained. "Let me help you with that..." Illya pushed Napoleon's legs a little further apart, reluctantly leaving Napoleon's embrace to kneel, his hands busy opening Napoleon's pants.

His partner's hand, the one that had been working such magic on Illya's spine, had moved to the cushion and currently gripped the edge of it with feverish strength. Napoleon's head lolled onto the back of the couch, his eyes closing as breath hissed from his lips when Illya's hand made contact with overheated flesh at last.

What man wouldn't like this? Illya could hardly imagine it was possible, though he had limited experience to fall back on in support of his theory. He was close to the edge himself, but this was important, significant. If nothing else, Illya told himself, he could make sure that Napoleon never thought of him in the same way again, that the memory of him here on his knees like this would remain etched in his partner's mind forever.

It was possibly a risky decision, one that might push their partnership over the edge should things become difficult between them in the future, but for now nothing else seemed more right. Illya fully intended to give Napoleon the best blowjob he had ever had, good enough to leave him begging for more, good enough to mean that no one else could ever match it.

If determination was enough, Napoleon was in for the ride of his life.

=======================

If he'd thought himself hard before, driven to distraction by the lithe muscularity of his partner in close proximity, Napoleon suddenly realized that he'd been fooling himself.

Napoleon felt the back of his head hit the thinly-padded frame of the couch, as he closed his eyes to prevent himself imploding at the sight of Illya on his knees before him. That determined light in his eyes warring with the small wicked smile that Napoleon had come to know so well over the years they'd been partners.

That image was burned into his brain, even as his eyes closed. Even when he'd been ogling Illya, he'd hardly given any thought to what it might be like to be involved with his partner, what sex with Illya might be like. Napoleon had made a discovery over the past few minutes - that his imagination wasn't anything like as good as he'd thought and that nothing could have prepared him for the raw carnality of seeing Illya like this.

He felt Illya's hand, the hand that had freed him from the confines of his pants, come to rest on his thigh, those few square inches of contact seeming to burn him like a brand. Marking him as Illya's and Illya's alone.

"Open your eyes, my friend." Illya's voice was pitched low, sounding more sultry than he'd ever imagined. "I want you to see who is doing this to you."

As if there could be any doubt of that? As if Napoleon's own imagination, now currently energized once more and helpfully providing him with images of Illya sucking him off wasn't enough? Somehow, though it seemed a herculean struggle, Napoleon managed to do as he was asked, his eyes opening slowly.

Illya was still there, still smiling that wicked smile, his other hand resting on his own erection, fingers loosely cupped around it as he met Napoleon's gaze. That sight was enough to make Napoleon's mouth go desert-dry, but whether with desire or the sudden realization of the step he was about to take, he wasn't sure. A mixture of both, perhaps?

For while it had been about kissing, they had been in familiar territory, but now they were about to cross the line. Even being on the receiving end of oral sex was nothing new, though Napoleon had found a number of his would-be paramours uneasy about the subject.

But the prospect of touching Illya like that, of that kind of intimacy, that was crossing into previously uncharted waters, deep and dark.

=======================

There was concern there now, in Napoleon's eyes, uncertainty written as clearly as if his partner had put words to his hesitation. Illya found himself hesitating too, feeling the slight tremor that shook Napoleon's body through where his hand rested on his partner's thigh -ironic, that someone so fearless where Thrush was concerned seemed worried now.

"Napoleon?"

There was concern in his own voice too. Illya heard it there, the emotions he felt towards his partner laid out there for anyone to examine. He had a choice, plain and simple, do this or turn and walk away - take the momentous step and change everything between them forever or do nothing and watch their friendship change regardless.

"What would you think," Napoleon began, "if I said I can't do this?"

The words were like cold water, dashed in his face.

"I can't make you _do_ anything," Illya said, schooling his voice to hide his disappointment. He wasn't sure he succeeded. "You know that."

Napoleon nodded. His eyes were still open, but they examined the room, never once making contact with Illya's even as the silence between them grew.

"Even if I wanted you to?"

The words seemed to come from nowhere and it took a moment before Illya could believe he'd heard them.

"It's always been your choice, my friend. You know that too." Silence again, Illya's hope that this could come to some kind of satisfactory end for either of them dwindling as the remorseless seconds passed. "Trust me now," Illya continued, when he could bear it no longer. "Please."

=======================

That was, after all, the beginning and end of everything between them. Napoleon trusted Illya Kuryakin like he trusted no-one else on the planet and he knew that trust went both ways. And that was what made this situation between them so different from any of the countless relationships he'd entered into over the course of his eventful life -a foundation of trust existed between him and Illya already, just waiting to be built upon.

He found himself looking at his partner, who still knelt there at his feet, who had been kneeling there waiting on his decision like he'd knelt before the guillotine. Willing, albeit reluctantly, to accept the judgement made, understanding the risk his actions had exposed him to. Trusting Napoleon to do the right thing, for both of them.

The words stuck in his throat, so all he could do was nod and hope that was enough for Illya.

He closed his eyes again, taking a deep shuddering breath as he concentrated on the mental image of Illya stroking himself, the unexpected wantonness of his usually so-controlled partner. As he'd expected, that image made him hard again in a matter of moments. When he opened his eyes, Illya was watching him with all the scrutiny he usually gave to potentially-lethal experiments or poisonous animals.

Despite the incongruity of the situation, Napoleon found himself smiling, felt his smile grow as he saw his partner relax a little. Even more as he felt Illya's hand slipped up his thigh in search of Napoleon's erection.

This time Napoleon forced himself to keep his eyes open, locked on Illya's - this was no chore, fascinated as he was by the emotions he saw so clearly in his partner's eyes. Trust, desire, lust, all warring for dominance. Illya moved closer, bending forward without breaking his gaze, his mouth opening to take in the head of Napoleon's erection.

Napoleon bit back a selection of the most vehement Russian curses his partner had taught him during a boring stake-out as the moist heat encircled him. Illya's hand had come to rest on Napoleon's hip and held him in place, preventing him from thrusting into Illya's mouth, from surging towards the edge even faster than he was hurtling towards it already.

Napoleon could feel the thin material of the couch cushion rip under the strength of his grip. Illya's mouth was tantalising, skilled at pulling him inexorably towards the brink of orgasm then allowing him to step back, over and over till Napoleon thought he'd lose his mind.

"Please." He choked out the words, barely intelligible, knowing that his eyes held that same plea for release.

Illya broke their gaze for the first time, then, deliberately and slowly closing his eyes as he concentrated on making Napoleon shatter.

=======================

Seeing the always-so-controlled Napoleon Solo whimpering under his touch was almost reward in itself, Illya decided, as he let his partner's now-limp erection slip from his mouth. He could never have imagined that his suave partner would make those kind of noises, or that his hands would grip the edge of the sofa cushions with such ferocity.

Napoleon's breath was rasping, his eyes tight closed as he tried to regain his equilibrium. Illya said nothing as he watched his partner, knowing that this moment left their partnership, their friendship, any relationship they might have at all, balanced precariously on a knife's edge.

After all, to be on the receiving end of a blowjob, no matter how good, was one thing. Reciprocation in any form was quite something else.

"Illya?" Napoleon's voice was a mere croak, as if he'd been travelling for days in the desert without water.

"Yes?" He couldn't take anything for granted, despite their long acquaintanceship. "What is it?"

Napoleon opened his eyes, the hand that had been clutching the edge of the sofa in a death grip loosening. His hand came to rest on Illya's shoulder, then slid down his arm, before taking hold and pulling Illya onto the couch beside him.

"That.." Napoleon stopped, his eyes still showing a little uncertainty. "This is it, isn't it?"

"'It'?"

"This is where everything changes."

Illya nodded, still watching his partner's eyes for any kind of clue on where this conversation might be leading. It always paid to be prepared, after all. He could feel the arousal draining from his body, all the better for a quick exit.

"There wouldn't seem to be any turning back, my friend," he said, trying to inject some lightness into the moment. Napoleon's face was solemn, his expressive eyes unreadable now, even with Illya's long experience of his partner's moods.

"Turning back?" Napoleon echoed. There was silence for a moment after he spoke, each passing second heavier than the one before. Then, suddenly, Napoleon started to laugh, even as his hand slipped across to rest on Illya's erection, the unexpected movement stirring it to new life. "Who wants to turn back?"


End file.
